


The Lie

by KeepsakeKey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Faked Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepsakeKey/pseuds/KeepsakeKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out that Sherlock faked his death before he returns. He decides to give the detective a taste of his own medicine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this post](http://apotheosize.tumblr.com/post/33264500452/nothing-rhymes-with-ianto-madlori-iamilex). I'm not sure if this has been done before, as the post is quite popular, but I wanted to do my own fic for it.

It's difficult, trying to form a new life after everything. It's funny how one man can change every aspect of your life. Funny how one man can so quickly become your everything.

John Watson didn't have much in life. Before the war he had his sister, but he was never amazingly close to her. After the war he lived like a shadow, his life on autopilot. 

Wake up, stop screaming, pull open the nightstand, stare, close the nightstand, get up, undress, urinate, shower, brush teeth, get dressed, float around aimlessly for hours, get undressed, go to bed, start screaming.

It was like an endless cycle, and it was as if he was never actually doing any of those things. It was as if he were outside of his body, staring down at this poor smuck who didn't have anything in life.

Then along came Sherlock. The meeting was unexpected, but what was even more unexpected was the man himself. Everyone said that he was insane, a sociopath, that one day he would start killing people. Sure, the detective was weird, but he was a good person, as well. 

He laughed, and when he did he was either loud enough that everyone heard him or so soft that one had to listen closely. He cried, but only when he was alone. He feared, although he only showed that fear to his closest friends. 

Sherlock closed himself off, put on such a prat exterior that no one bothered to give him a longer look. The few that did quickly saw that Sherlock is human, too; Ms. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John, and even Irene Adler.

So after Sherlock came into John's life, everything changed. He no longer ran on autopilot, and he didn't have nightmares. It's like his body and mind had focused on Sherlock, his entire world revolving around the odd man.

And then Sherlock died.

When Sherlock jumped off of that roof, everything changed once again. Everything broke apart into tiny pieces. The people around him tried to help, he knows, but nothing worked. Sure, he was friendly to the other people that cared for Sherlock, but John's only friend was Sherlock himself. Everyone around him kept trying to sweep up the pieces and give him something new, instead of picking them up and rebuilding what had broken.

John no longer had anything. His entire world had been built around Sherlock. The flat was just the way Sherlock liked it, he helped on the police cases because Sherlock liked having company, he went to threaten Mycroft because sometimes Sherlock just needed someone to stick up for him. Without Sherlock the flat was suddenly empty, the police work was uninteresting, and Mycroft just became another person that looked at him with pity in his eyes.

The doctor was tired of the pitying looks, the pats on the shoulder from those that still cared. The ones that didn't eventually got annoyed by his depression, not understanding how he could be so upset from someone like Sherlock dying. No, not dying. Comitting suicide.

After Sherlock came into his life, John had never thought of the act of suicide again. After Sherlock came into his life, he was happy enough to continue on with a smile on his face. But even now, his smiles were limited.

***

"Your tricks aren't amusing, Mycroft."

The older Holmes brother scowled, leaning back in his leather seat and crossing his legs. He had tried to break it gently to his younger sibling, but apparently that wasn't going to work. "It's not a trick, Sherlock. It happened a few weeks ago."

Amazingly, Sherlock fell silent. His gaze fell down to his legs, which up to a couple of seconds ago had been bouncing with irritation. Mycroft could see the wheels and cogs turning as Sherlock tried to think this through, forcing himself to be rational about it all.

After clearing his throat, Mycroft leaned forward in his seat, his voice turning soft once more. "Where were you a few weeks back?"

The younger brother's eyes flickered up, settling on the older's face for only a moment before tearing away. "Paris. I found it was actually quite boring, and I didn't particularly like the food. I was expecting the Efile Tower to be some amazing structure, but the metal is rusting and the lights dimming. It was nothing special, but I think that John would..." Sherlock's voice drifted off, his face twisting almost painfully.

After a few moments of Sherlock taking deep breaths, he raised his head to look Mycroft straight in the eyes, forcing himself to tackle this head on. "Really?"

Mycroft's eyes fell for a second, but he nodded. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. He's gone."

Sherlock stood quickly, almost startling his brother. His shoulders were tensed, ready for a fight that he knew wouldn't come. "How?" He did, of course, already know. He knew John's mind as well as his own, knew exactly how he would choose to do it.

Mycroft didn't comment on how his little brother's voice had broken on that one word. "His gun," he answered, confirming Sherlock's thoughts.

Sherlock nodded, no longer trusting his voice to come out correctly, his words to flow properly. Instead he turned on his heel and walked out of the room slow enough to be just short of running. His hand slithered down into the pocket of his coat, clutching around the money inside. He needed a fag.

***

By time Sherlock returned to the flat, he had smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes. Mycroft would have been upset with him, and John surely would have thrown the entire pack away as soon as he saw them, but there was no one around to tell him not to smoke them. The only bad thing was that while the nicotine calmed him down, it also made his brain work faster and harder, his mind going through all the scenarios of how he could have prevented this.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street, noticing with a frown that the locks were still the same. Ms. Hudson didn't seem to be in, which was just fine with him; he didn't want to have to put up with her at the moment on top of everything else. He walked up stairs with careful precision, his body shaking from all the nicotine in his system.

The door to the flat was pushed open with enough force to make it hit the wall, and was closed just as loudly. He slipped his scarf off of his neck with ease, hanging it on the rack that's always been there. A humourless chuckle escaped his throat as he took in the area. The funiture was just where it has always been, and there were books, boxes, and paperwork sitting around in the same positions he had left them in.

Where had John done it, he wondered? His bedroom, maybe? Sherlock hadn't bothered turning on any of the lights, so he couldn't see if there were any bloodstains on the carpet or the walls. Maybe he had done it in Sherlock's room out of spite.

"I see John didn't move much of anything."

Sherlock didn't take any time to consider that talking to himself was most likely a sign of him still being in shock of it all. Surely the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't fall victim to shock? He had almost been killed multiple times, he had faked his own death without so much as batting an eyelash. He could handle this too, couldn't he?

A sob broke through his throat before he even realized what was happening, and he fell into a undignified heap into the chair he always used to sit in. The heels of his hands pushed into his eyes, forcing the tears to stay just where they were.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

For a moment, Sherlock thought that he had just imagined the voice, the words. Then he noticed the sound of footsteps, and his head shot up fast enough to make him dizzy.

John stood a couple of feet in front of him, Sherlock's mobile in his hand. His eyes were on the device as he pressed a button over and over. The army doctor obviously hadn't been sleeping very well. Bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled, new wrinkles on his face, his shoulders slumped. But then again, he was supposed to be dead.

_"'Where are you, Sherlock? -JW' 'I suppose I need to get the milk this time. -JW' 'I found a finger in the butter compartment; I think your experiment failed. -JW'" His voice was clipped as he read through the text messages on the phone, his eyes still never leaving the screen. ___

"John, you-"

"I guess it's no surprise that you never answered. I had the phone with me, of course. It was a little hard to get the blood out, but I very well couldn't walk around with a bloodied mobile in my pocket, could I? Whose blood was that, I wonder?"

Sherlock stood up from his spot on the chair. "You're supposed to be..."

"I wanted you to know what it was like." John's eyes finally left the mobile, gazing at Sherlock with a list of emotions running across his features.

A shocked silence followed, Sherlock's eyes wide with surprise as he stared down at the man.

"You shouldn't blame Mycroft. I told him that either he help me with this, or I tell everyone what hand he played in getting you to disappear off the face of the planet."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You're not dead."

"That would make two of us," John replied. He put the mobile down on the other chair before moving closer, his eyes angry. "You can't do that again."

Surely John knew what had been at risk? Sherlock jumped to defend himself, not used to having to do so. "They were going to kill you. And Ms. Hudson, and-"

"Dammit, Sherlock, I don't care!" John moved closer, and for the first time since Sherlock has known him, he could see why the man had been so respected while in the Army. John was smaller than him, but in this moment he seemed to take up the entire room.

Sherlock found that he didn't know what to say. He couldn't get angry at John, considering what he had put the man through. He couldn't defend himself, because John already knew it all. So instead he just nodded.

John took another few steps forward, and within seconds he had his arms wrapped around Sherlock's body, his face digging into his neck. Any other time Sherlock would have tensed under the sudden contact, maybe even pushed away. But he did neither, putting his arms around John's waist.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into the smaller man's hair, his eyes squeezing closed. John nodded, whispering a soft "I am too" into his skin.

If John happened to notice that Sherlock was shaking far too much to be attributed to the nicotine, he didn't comment on it.


End file.
